


The Silence of the Sigillites

by Immanuel



Category: Horus Heresy - Various Authors, Warhammer 40.000, Warhammer 40k (Novels) - Various Authors
Genre: Gen, Mal & Jen BroTP - Freeform, Mal and Jen meet for the first time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-29
Updated: 2016-09-29
Packaged: 2018-08-18 12:58:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8162782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Immanuel/pseuds/Immanuel
Summary: The fortress of the Sigillites has fallen. Malcador, the last Sigillite, awaits his doom in the repository.





	

“ _In silence, only truth remains._ ”

SILENCE. FOR AS long as Malcador could remember, he had never known silence. The world was a noisy place, even more so to one with his gift. Always the collective clamour of billions of minds was at the edge of his own. He had often wished to be able to shut them out.  
  Malcador sighed. Now that they were gone, and he was alone with his thoughts, he found it was not as peaceful as he had imagined. There was no epiphany of calm. Only the creeping dread of impending doom.  
  He gripped his staff tighter as he walked towards the door. To either side of him were row after row of stasis cases, raised on marble plinths and filled with works of art and technology from tens of thousands of years of human history. Malcador had wanted to see it one last time before the end. It broke his heart to think of what would become of it. The soul of mankind, collected and preserved through Old Night by the Sigillites, sacrificed on the altar of the Emperor’s ambition.  
  Was there anything they could have done, in the end?  
  The great iron gates of the last repository of the Sigillites glowed with a bloom of intense heat from the other side. The reinforced blast door was reduced to slag in an instant. A single figure stood on the other side. Robbed of his other sight, Malcador realised how reliant on it he had been as he blinked away the confusion of light dancing across his vision in the aftermath of the melta blast.  
  The Emperor’s Witchseeker General took her first step into the chamber, the sound of her brass-shod boots eerily muffled. Instinctively, Malcador took a step backwards. With a towering topknot of flaming hair so tall it scraped the low ceiling, and a two-handed blade that would have looked large even in the hands of a Thunder Warrior, her physical presence alone was intimidating. It was the silence that surrounded her, though, that froze Malcador’s heart in primal terror. She was an anathema stronger than any Malcador had ever encountered, her null aura as unyielding as the layered plates of her silver armour.  
  Malcador raised his staff, ready to parry – ready to fight, for what little that was worth. He was not a warrior, but he was determined to die on his feet. She took another step forwards, entering the chamber fully.  
  Their eyes met, and it was like a dagger in his very soul. Malcador staggered backwards, tumbling into a tall, narrow case as his staff slipped from nerveless fingers. Perhaps he would not meet his death with dignity after all.  
  She was still several metres away, her mere proximity agonising. He closed his eyes, but could still see, still _feel_ her icy gaze boring into him. Her steps approached with a dull clink of brass on marble, devoid of echo even in the cavernous space. Each step, approaching with metronomic regularity, tightened the psychic noose. He wondered if she would even have to raise her blade against him, or if her mere presence would be enough to extinguish his life.  
  No, there was nothing they could have done. For all their lauded psychic resilience, the Emperor’s Thunder Legion and Angels of Death had been outmanoeuvred, unable to bring the Sigillites to open battle where their brute might would prove decisive. But, in the end, there had been nowhere on Terra left to run from the Emperor’s witch hunters. Not since the reign of the Unspeakable King had more than a handful of such soulless abominations been gathered. Malcador thought of the secret gene-labs in which the Emperor was said to have bred His super-soldiers from His own flesh, and wondered if the silent order were not the product of similar experiments on a singularly powerful anathema. It was a terrifying thought that the Emperor could endure the presence of such a being. Far more terrifying was the prospect that she stood before him now.  
  The cold kiss of steel met his throat. Limbs still refusing to obey him, Malcador turned his eyes to the contents of the case he had fallen against, wondering what ancient treasure he would die beneath.  
  Past the crystalline frontispiece and shimmering stasis field, an eagle cast in still-shining gold sat proudly atop the remains of a corroded iron pole. It was a grim irony to die beneath the _signum aquila_ of one of Roma’s lost legions. A mark of empire, and of oblivion.  
  The blade slid around to his cheek, pressing with the flat to turn Malcador’s gaze back to his executioner. She regarded him with narrowed eyes. Irises of frigid blue looked out from between marks of the Emperor - a blood red aquila on her brow, and a stylised eagle half-helm obscuring the lower half of her face.  
  She withdrew her blade, much to his surprise. The giant sword, too large to be drawn from any worn scabbard, lost none of its menace even when held at ease.  She motioned for him to rise, offering her hand. Barely processing what was happening, Malcador reached out.  
  He immediately regretted the decision, pulling his hand back the instant it touched hers. Like the touch of death itself, he was sure his heart had stopped for that brief moment. Seeing his reaction, the Witchseeker General instead proffered his staff. He hadn’t noticed her retrieve it. Everything about her defied perception, her primordial emptiness bleeding over into even the mundane senses. Somewhat tentatively, he grasped it.  
  The Witchseeker General took three steps backward, loosening the dread grip of her presence. Feeling the full weight of his years for the first time in centuries, Malcador pulled himself to his feet.  
  Half-turned towards the ruined doorway, the Witchseeker General beckoned for him to follow her.  
  Malcador didn’t move.  
  It was a small act of defiance, but it was all that he could muster. If the Emperor wanted him, He would have to come Himself. Malcador would die here, confronting the Emperor with the history and legacy of mankind. He would not be executed on his knees before the Emperor’s host as others had.  
  It was said that the witch hunters never spoke. Others said that to hear them speak was damnation to a fate worse than death. When she spoke, her Ur-Phoenician had only a faint Albian accent, yet with marked overenunciation that suggested the former theory was at least close to true. For the latter, only time would tell.  
  “Thy sire would have words with thee.”

**Author's Note:**

> When I wrote about Mal and Jen in 'Silence', I really liked the idea of them as best friends in spite of the fact that Jen's very being is anathema to Mal - probably inspired a little by Eisenhorn and Bequin, although strictly platonic in this case. Of course, it took them years (centuries, even) to get to that point - and this is the shaky start to the BroTP.
> 
> Timeline:  
> M29: Emperor begins the Unification Wars  
> c.780.M30: Creation of the Angels of Death


End file.
